


To Thy High Requiem

by StarkAstarte



Series: Keep Calm and Carry a Wand [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Hogwarts, M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post Camlann, Post Second Wizarding War, Resurrection, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:14:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkAstarte/pseuds/StarkAstarte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2017, and Merlin is the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. </p><p>Morgana, long recovered from her vengeful madness and now Merlin's oldest friend, is Minister for Magic with Hermione Weasley at her side as Senior Undersecretary. </p><p>The night before Albus Potter, Rose Weasley, and Scorpius Malfoy come to Hogwarts as first year students, Morgana summons Merlin to a meeting at the Leaky Cauldron, where he discovers a shocking addition to that year's student roster: a young witch by the name of Ygraine Pendragon. </p><p>Can Professor Emrys handle the truth of the young witch's origins while maintaining his position as Headmaster of one of the most prestigious schools of magic in the world, or will his head and heart be too involved with the reappearance of a very old friend indeed? </p><p>With the help of some very opinionated enchanted portraits, Merlin just might find the strength to manage with grace the return of someone with whom he has been waiting to be reunited for a very long time. What will he do when the man in question can't seem to remember who he is, let alone a deceptively ancient warlock drawing his only daughter into a world of myth and magic he can't understand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That I Might Drink, and Leave the World Unseen

After Camelot fell, Merlin never thought he would feel so at home in a castle again. Caves were more his sort of dwelling, and he’d lived in the one Taliesin had shown him in the Valley of the Fallen Kings for centuries after everyone he knew and loved was gone. For many years, the gleaming crystals where his only comfort and company. After that, he’d lived for many more centuries of his long, lonely life in a small stone croft hidden away in a secret, magically protected grove near Glastonbury.

       And then, in 1892, at the urging of one of his former acolytes, he’d come to Hogwarts to share some of his knowledge with precocious young witches and wizards. The looming towers, unbreachable battlements and shining mullioned windows had seemed painfully familiar. He’d almost tucked tail and run, back to the scant remaining woodland of Somerset. He didn’t want to live like that again, surrounded by the sort of deceptively timeless, imposing beauty that would only remind him of everything he had lost, so long ago, when Hogwarts wasn’t even a glimmer in the eye of Fate.

       At first, the warlock had far preferred the look of the groundskeeper’s house. But as the new Defense Against the Arts teacher and Head of Gryffindor House, he’d taken up reluctant residence in one of the three towers, where he spent some of the most rewarding (though not particularly peaceful, with Phineas Nigellus Black as Headmaster) years of his life before moving on, taking up his old post near the place where the lake of Avalon had once been. For decades, he’d stood sentinel near where the legendary lake had once filled the Somerset Levels, waiting for his King. But then Voldemort had risen. And Merlin had joined forces with the Order of the Phoenix in the Battle of Hogwarts. After which, he went right back to Glastonbury.

He never dreamed, for all of his farsight, that he would ever be back inside the castle again after the Reconstruction, much less take up the post of Headmaster after Minerva McGonagall retired. But she had asked him personally. Told him it was what Dumbledore had wanted, for his old teacher and mentor to take up the shield of Hogwarts as his greatest student once had done. And so Merlin had done, proudly, the Crystal of Neahtid ever in the periphery of his gaze, just in case a familiar form appeared in the mists of the land that was forever beyond the veil.

Until then, he belonged to Hogwarts, mind and body, if not quite soul.

Merlin gazed at the familiar heraldry fondly, reading the latin motto over again for the ten thousandth time, though he’d long known it by heart. **DRACO DORMIENS NUNQUAM TITILLANDUS**. _Never Tickle A Sleeping Dragon._

“I came up with that motto, you know,” he reminded the portrait of his old friend, who had been snoozing peacefully for the past hour. “And as for tickling dragons, I only made that mistake once. The consequences resonated with me rather a long while.”

Dumbledore’s portrait opened one pale, twinkling eye, his half-moon glasses seeming to gleam as they had during his life. “Yes, Professor, I know. It was my favourite of your tales when I was a student. I must say, I have always been sorely tempted to test the admonition myself.” He inclined his head to his left and winked knowingly.

In the portrait next to him, one Merlin had personally commissioned, Kilgharrah yawned mightily. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Albus,” he said mildly, though his expression was as fierce and his tone as insolent as ever. “Show him your hideous scar, Merlin. That’ll make him think twice.”

The old wizard’s gentle expression of mirth did not abate. “As I have been dead for twenty years, Kilgharrah, I suspect I would recover from whatever damage you decided to inflict rather readily. Remember the Great Portrait Melee of 2002? I won, as I recall--even though you burnt my portrait to a crisp, from the inside, I might add. I only just escaped into Severus’s frame in the nick of time.”

The Great Dragon snorted rudely, sending out a delicate plume of smoke that was nonetheless potent enough to set the sleeve of Merlin’s robe on fire.

“Oi!” the sorcerer exclaimed, jumping up and putting the flame out with a muttered spell. He didn’t need to bother with the pretense of a wand, though he often carried a 13-inch twisted hawthorn with a core of dragon’s heartstring, for the ceremonial aesthetic. And not just _any_ dragon’s heartstring. He shook his head, and gave the portrait of its donor a look of exasperated fondness. “Stop setting me on bloody fire, you great bloody lizard! And _anyway_ ,” Merlin continued with feeling. “I don’t _have_ a hideous scar, as you well know, Kilgharrah.”

“Only because you’re incredibly vain about that pasty hide of yours, though I’ve no earthly idea why. You’re as pale as powdered porcelain, young warlock.”

“Young warlock,” Merlin mimicked. “Kilgharrah, I’m 1507 years old. When exactly do you plan on calling me, at the very least, a _middle-aged_ warlock?”

“Perhaps when you overcome your unmitigated vanity enough to actually _appear_ middle-aged,” the dragon said serenely. “You don’t look a day over thirty, which, if you ask me, is pushing suspended disbelief a little too far.”

Merlin blushed, ducking his head. “You know very well why I stay this way,” he muttered, fiddling with things on his desk and avoiding the penetrating gaze of the liquid amber eyes.

“Because you don’t wish to alarm the King, when he rises again,” Kilgharrah sighed, rolling his eyes. “But you know very well, Merlin, that the king would recognize in you in the guise of Emrys, which is your rightful visage.”

_I don’t want you to change, Merlin. I want you to always be you..._

“He would _recognize_ me, yes,” Merlin retorted, shaking the king’s death-bed words from his mind, sending them swirling back into the dark waters of his memory like silver threads in a Pensieve. “But he wouldn’t _like_ me very much. He never did trust Emrys, not even at the end, when he knew all.”

“Since you and Emrys are one and the same, what you are really saying is that the king never truly trusted _you_ , and that you hope to manipulate his emotions by appearing to him in the guise of his beloved and beautiful young lover and servant.”

Merlin’s face was positively on fire, but before he could deal the Great Dragon a colourful reply, the portrait residing in the dark recess across the room heaved a gusty sigh. “Oh, For Odin’s _sake_ , will you three stop bickering about things that no one else on earth cares about, and let me get the rest I spent my tenure in this ghost-infested heap of stones earning.?”

The voice was petulant and nasally, grating on Merlin’s nerves like the claws of a werewolf on slate. He didn’t know why Professor Black, for all that he professed undying loathing for Hogwarts and all it had stood for since his retirement, didn’t stay in his other portrait at number 12 Grimmauld Place more often. Perhaps it was because he loathed the Potter Family far more than he did Merlin, or the portraits of the three former headmasters and mistresses that loomed in pride of place where the current one in residence could converse with them at length.

Dumbledore regarded his predecessor politely. “I take it the Potters have returned from their holidays in Peru? I understand the children were particularly thrilled by the climb to Machu Picchu. A glorious site. I was there myself in 1923, but the unfortunate arrival of the wrathful ghost of the emperor Pachacuti brought my visit up short.”

Phineas rolled his eyes. “The Potter brats have been spending the afternoon wearing silly hats on their heads, screeching in pidgin Spanish, and scaling the stairwells to the top of the house before sliding back down with the most bloodcurdling screams. I can’t get a moment’s peace. They are the most ill-mannered hooligans it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I hesitate to disagree with your assessment, Phineas, but I always have the most delightful adventures when I spend time in my portrait over their nursery mantelpiece. Don’t you, Severus?”

A soft, oddly expressionless voice drifted across the room like a skein of ectoplasm. “Harry had the kind foresight to place mine in the library, a room that is very little visited except by the youngest child, who does not disturb me by whinging on endlessly about the shortcomings of others. Which is more than I can say for some of the residents of this office.”

Professor McGonagall, only very recently deceased, piped up warmly, the clacking of her knitting needles punctuating her comfortable Scots burr. “Ah, Lily! What a delightful child. I only wish I was still teaching. Something tells me she will be as adept at Transfiguration as her Aunt Hermione!”

“We won’t be seeing her at Hogwarts for another two years yet,” Dumbledore mused. “Though I understand my namesake will be arriving with the other First Years tomorrow, Professor Emrys?”

Merlin nodded. “Rose Weasley as well.”

“And,” Minerva said, raising her eyebrow pointedly, arresting her flying fingers for a moment to emphasize her words. “Wee Scorpius Malfoy, too.”

“That could indeed prove a potent combination of personalities,” Snape commented laconically. “You would do well to keep an eye on them, Headmaster.”

Before Merlin could reply, a creaky voice like a pair of underused bellows piped up. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Professor. It’s very unlikely I will sort the three of them into the same house.”

“That is not a comfort,” Snape told the raggedy old headdress dryly. “The cousins will be just as likely to get into trouble together and at odds with young Malfoy if they are in different houses.”

The Hat harrumphed, and went back to listening in on their conversation whilst feigning sleep, looking for all the world like a bit of burlapy rubbish. Merlin had stopped himself from tossing it away by accident on more than one occasion.

“Well, it isn’t very likely that anyone of the Potter-Weasley tribe will be sorted into any house but Gryffindor,” Professor McGonagall argued, “Or that they will manage to stay out of trouble in such close quarters to each other, any more than it’s likely they won’t make instant enemies with the Malfoy lad, who will no doubt make his papa very proud by descending to the dungeons with the rest of the Slytherins.”

“You say that, Professor, like it is next door to a curse,” Snape reprimanded her silkily. “Slytherin’s reputation is, I hope, somewhat improved in your estimation since the Second Wizarding War.”

Minerva coloured slightly, and then recovered. “It certainly has, yes, Professor. And would have remained even higher in my esteem were you here yourself to oversee the progress of Slytherin pupils. But I cannot say I rest easy with the newest Head of Slytherin House occupying your office.” She sighed, and shivered slightly, burrowing down into her tartan shawl. “There is something about young Professor Mordred that gives me a decidedly _hinky_ feeling, and I don’t mind admitting it to you gentlemen.”

Kilgharrah snorted rudely, eyeing Merlin as if to say _Well, she isn’t_ wrong.

Merlin chose his words carefully. “Professor Mordred is a highly strung, deeply talented young warlock,” he said. “His services to Hogwarts have been beyond reproach. He is very powerful, one of the most powerful wizards I have encountered in recent years. I want him where I can keep an eye on him. Guide him if possible, and where necessary. A talent like his comes along very rarely, and he's got a lot to teach the young ones. A man like him needs an outlet for his gifts, as darkness so easily ensnares the restless mind. He's an indispensable member of my staff and the Hogwarts community. I wouldn’t dispense with his dedicated services lightly.”

Dumbledore nodded sagely, his crinkly silver eyes searching Merlin’s face. “I agree with the Headmaster. Greatness in a wizard is a volatile thing. Very often, it is the company he keeps that tempers that greatness into equal goodness.”

“I of all people have reason to know just how true that statement is,” Severus affirmed quietly. “It is no exaggeration to say that my home here at Hogwarts, my students and colleagues, the faith Albus showed in me no matter that he was often alone in it, saved me from that very darkness.”

“It was the privilege of my life to call you my friend and confidant,” Dumbledore said, his serene face overcome slightly with emotion. “I trusted no one more when I needed a friend most. Who is to say that Professor Emrys won’t one day have cause to say the same thing of young Mordred?”

“Well, the Minister for Magic certainly seems to have faith in his abilities,” the dragon pronounced, his tone ambiguous enough to suggest that it mightn’t be much of a recommendation on behalf of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

“She certainly does,” Minerva affirmed. “And whatever her faults, Morgana Pendragon is a canny witch. She does not place her trust frivolously. I understand you’ve known her a very long time, Professor Emrys?”

“Longer than I care to recount,” Merlin smiled. “She is capricious, it’s true. But she is also a strong and capable leader. I don’t think the Ministry has ever been run so efficiently.”

“And with Hermione Weasley as her Senior Undersecretary, is it any wonder?” Snape said. “That girl always was an insufferable know-it-all. No doubt she is in her glory.”

“And rightly so,” Minerva countered sharply. “Hermione Weasley’s star is still on the rise. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she finds herself Minister for Magic, someday, if Morgana Pendragon ever relinquishes her seat.”

Snape sneered slightly, and opened his mouth to protest. Despite their respective heroics as veterans of WWII (as the Second Wizarding War had come to be known) he’d never quite got over his dislike of the “Granger girl”, as he still so often called her, though she was nearly forty years old and the mother of a half-grown witch as well as a young wizard.

“Speaking of Madam Pendragon” Dumbledore cut in deftly, before a squabble broke out between his former colleagues, “I do believe a Ministry owl arrived this afternoon with her seal on the envelope. Did you take note of its arrival, Headmaster?”

Merlin nodded, scrubbing his hand wearily over his face. “Right. Yeah. Nearly forgot.”

The room fell respectfully silent as he plucked the unopened royal purple hued envelope out of the pile, his address [Headmaster Merlin Emrys, Unsightly Cluttered Desk, Headmaster’s Office, 1st Turret Headmaster’s Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry] scrawled across it in her spidery script. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Mrs Weasley usually took care of the Minister’s correspondence. Merlin far preferred Hermione’s precise, elegant hand to Morgana’s henscratch. He tore open the golden Pendragon seal and squinted at the blood coloured sheaf of parchment. Her letters always looked like they were written by the light of a guttering candle, the letters more like runes than a Latin-based alphabet, but long centuries had accustomed Merlin’s eye to their obscure flourishes.

 _Dear Headmaster,_ the letter said, in ink distilled from the essence of a particularly moody midnight.

_It has been a terribly long Age since the two of us have clinked glasses over a tavern table. If you would be so kind, Emrys, please meet me in the Leaky Cauldron tonight at half-ten. I realize it’s quite a distance to travel, but I’m afraid I have only a half-hour to spare. Just Disapparate from Hogsmeade, or flag down a passing Thestral, if you don’t mind. I’ll meet you there._

_Don’t be late._

_Yours,_

_Morgana Pendragon,_

_Minister for Magic_

“She wants to meet me tonight at half-ten in the Leaky Cauldron, of all places,” Merlin reiterated for the benefit of his portrait-based companions.

There was only a very mild exclamation of collective surprise. Most of the former Heads of Hogwarts were feigning sleep in their frames, which didn’t bother Merlin, as he wasn’t as close to them as he was the three immediately preceding him. And Kilgharrah, of course, who didn’t really have any business hanging on the Office wall. Merlin had commissioned and enchanted the painting himself, and the likeness and mannerisms were uncanny. He could almost forget that the Great Dragon had been dead for more than a thousand years. Kilgharrah got on surprisingly well with Merlin’s other advisers, especially Professor Dumbledore, with whom he shared a peculiar and obscure sense of humour. He made himself scarce when Merlin had living company, in any case, as the sight of a dragon in close quarters, however much he tried to curtail his fire-breathing exercises, would only cause undue alarm.

“What do you think she wants?” Professor McGonagall queried with one of her usual expressions of stern anxiety. “You haven’t been up to anything worrisome in the Potions classroom again, have you, Headmaster?”

“Not since the silverfish repellant went so badly awry,” Merlin admitted with a wry grin. “Potions never were my strong suit. Gaius was always after me to study harder, but it was always so much easier to simply incant a spell and have done with it.”

“Where is the good physician, by the by?” Dumbledore gazed over at the empty portrait immediately across from him. He and Gaius were fast and famous friends as well. He had even advised Merlin on how to enchant the portrait with a mild befuddlement charm that caused anyone looking at it to believe that Gaius had been the Headmaster of Hogwarts for nine days in 1568 before succumbing to a particularly virulent strain of dragon pox. “I thought his holiday in Aberystwyth was scheduled to end last Monday.”

“His visits to Alice’s portrait in the antique shop on Troed Rhiw Haidd always seem to go on a bit,” Merlin said. “Apparently the flora and fauna in her portrait are rare and fascinating.”

“That, or they’re busy consummating their bizarre marriage as many times as their creaking old bones will allow them.” The Great Dragon said humourlessly.

“Ah yes,” Dumbledore said sympathetically, as Merlin’s mouth dropped open. “Maintaining intimacy between married portraits has long been a difficult undertaking. Perhaps if someone were to travel to Aberystwyth, a charming place, and purchase Alice’s portrait from the shop and bring it to one of the galleries at Hogwarts, the two could spend more quality time in each other’s company?”

“I’ve tried that,” Merlin said flatly. “But as it would make too much sense, neither party will hear of it. Gaius insists he enjoys the change of scenery, and Alice declares her need for independence. Anyway, I’m glad Gaius isn’t here at the moment. He would advise against my going to meet Morgana. He's never learned to trust her as far as he can throw her, which, as a two-dimensional bit of canvas, isn’t very far.”

Kilgharrah drew himself up to his full height, emitting a rather impressive plume of steam he didn’t bother directing politely away from the face of the sole living being in the room. “He doesn’t need to be here for someone to advise caution, young warlock. Morgana Pendragon is not a witch with which to be trifled.”

“I don’t plan on trifling with her, I plan on buying her a drink,” Merlin said mildly.

“Make it an exploding lemonade,” Kilgharrah muttered.

“The last time he took that advice, he ended up wearing it,” Minerva tutted. “It was quite the mess.”

“Particularly after she charmed to keep exploding as long as any of the lemonade molecules were still in contact with my clothes and skin,” Merlin reminisced with a grimace. “I had to throw out one of my best sets of robes.”

“And, if I recall, shave off and regrow all of your hair,” Dumbledore put in serenely, though Merlin detected the ghost of a smile twitching the wizard’s silvery whiskers.

“Alright, alright!” Merlin groused. “I’ll be careful. And you'll all behave yourselves while I’m gone. No more inter-portrait Exploding Snap tournaments.”

“I refuse to make such a promise,” Dumbledore said with dignity. “I must defend my championship title at all costs.”

A lusty argument began to break out as Merlin left the office, throwing Kilgharrah a quelling look. The Great Dragon managed not to carry on with his protest, but Merlin felt the liquid amber eyes boring into his back the whole way down the spiral staircase into the third floor corridor. Kilgharrah could never seem to accept that Morgana Pendragon had changed. Merlin didn’t think of the painful, centuries-long transformation as change so much as a return to the witch’s former, fierce-but-fair nature. He had never believed her to be a creature of pure darkness. She was half shadow, half light, like all beings. It was her job to balance the two properly, as everyone must. Past failures were no guarantee of future ones. Or so he encouraged himself to believe. He, too, needed to overcome much of his own psychological baggage. Forgiving Morgana was one whole suitcase full. Forgiving himself was several, and an ongoing battle.

The castle was always quiet this time of night, but tonight especially, as it was empty of the teeming life of students, an energy that seemed to vibrate throughout the venerable building even when the vast, rule-abiding majority of the student body was fast asleep in their dormitories. The corridors were dim, lit only by intermittent torches and the occasional passing bioluminescent spectre. Merlin bowed gravely to the Grey Lady as she glided by, offering him an elegant, though carefully reserved, curtsy in return. Through the windows, Merlin could detect a few of the more restless owls swooping in and out of the shafts of moonlight that illumined the grounds. No doubt Archimedes was among them, stretching his wings prior to going on the hunt. Sometimes Merlin slipped into the flesh and feathers of his namesake and went with him, but the other owls didn’t take kindly to interlopers. Owls and hawks natural allies did not make. It was strange, having to register a power that came as naturally to him as breathing, but Merlin tried to comply with Ministry regulations where necessary. He had lived a thousand years before he even knew what an Animagus was, by name. By then, it was simply another facet of his vast and terrifying power. Simple things like registry and regulation of his gifts made other witches and wizards feel a lot more comfortable with him. Even among their kind, the great wizard Merlin had been little more than a rumour, a myth to retell over drowsy hearth-light. Some of his detractors, mostly those with Pure-Blood sensibilities, didn’t believe he was who he said he was, as he had no genealogical proof.

“But I _am_ my own genealogical proof,” he had argued, amused. “A 15oo year old man tends not to have any living family.”

He felt a pang at the thought of Hunith, whom he had buried in the soft turf of Ealdor more years ago than he cared to count. He hadn’t managed an enchanted portrait of her. For one thing, he wasn’t certain she would have approved of such a morbid and unnatural practice. Magical portraits weren’t exactly necromancy, but to someone like Hunith, they would be dangerously akin. She believed in letting the dead lie buried. And for another thing, Merlin wasn’t at all certain he remembered her face and mannerisms well enough. Of course, he could swirl his memories of her around in a Pensieve for a few hours, bringing it all back in a sickening wave of longing and nostalgia, the way he had Gaius and Kilgharrah. But Hunith was his mother. He didn’t want to use magic to manipulate his remaining feelings and memories of her. He felt somehow that it was a greater tribute to her memory to just let it all fade gently away, like rain on a watercolour. Until all he had left was a beautiful haze in which to wrap himself.

The air was crisp and fragrant as Merlin crossed the grounds. He burrowed more deeply into the folds of his cloak, casting a long, undulating shadow across the grass. It never failed to amuse him that his wizarding garb was so similar to that which he wore in the Dark Ages, after the death of his king had turned him into an older man overnight. He dressed no more in tunics and trousers, but in comfortable, flowing robes as Gaius did, black instead of his customary red and blue. He never wore a colour again. He was the pale, thin sorcerer, the wizard in black. And so he remained.

When he walked among Muggles, he wore brushed charcoal trousers and black military-cut jackets, scarves the colour of shadow, as that was what he was. A shadow of his former self, even as he grew in power and prominence. He never allowed himself to grow too powerful, however. The headmaster of one of the preeminent schools in the wizarding world was as high as his sights had ever soared, and even accepting that position had taken some cajoling. But he had a duty, he believed, to share his gifts. To help others to realize theirs. Especially important were the gifts of impressionable young people. He had grown up alone, hiding who he was in fear and desperation. He had lived that way for nearly thirty years of his life. And all for nothing. Arthur had died anyway. Camelot had fallen. And he had been alone for time out of mind.

He wasn’t alone anymore. For all that he spent much of his time in the company of enchanted pictures of the dead, he had more company now than he had had over the rest of his entire existence combined. It was both wonderful and intensely hard to bear. He’d grown used to his loneliness over the years, had even come to regard it as an old friend. Perhaps even a just punishment for past sins.

Stepping outside of the grounds, Merlin closed his eyes and concentrated on the false front of the old junk shop sandwiched between the record shop and Muggle bookstore on Charing Cross Road that concealed the Leaky Cauldron. It annoyed him that he had to leave school grounds before he could Apparate. The fact that there was no Apparating to or from Hogwarts made travelling from place to place very difficult. Magical etiquette was very inconvenient. Merlin much preferred the simple adage _And it harm none, do what thou wilt_. It covered everything worth worrying about rather nicely, so Merlin had always thought. Though it’d never seemed to catch on, except with the Neo-Pagan set. Actual witches and wizards seemed to prefer complex laws and regulations over a simple Hippocratic-style oath. He supposed it had something to do with the fact that dark magic and its practitioners had to be quelled somehow. Magical Law Enforcement had been as inevitable as the Spanish Inquisition. People seemed to want to be regulated as much as they loved to regulate each other.

He Apparated without much effort, the old strange feeling of having his internal organs compressed and then scrambled like an omelet oddly invigorating. Apparating was another skill he’d perfected long before it’d had a name. He had the feeling he may well have taught it to some early witches and wizards, who then made up a bunch of rules about its use. Merlin arrived outside the Leaky Cauldron with a resounding crack. The Muggles who were still larking about London late at night failed to notice his sudden appearance, their eyes sliding incuriously over him almost as if he was covered in an invisibility cloak, even though he was in plain sight. He waited until no one was looking, just in case there was a more observant Muggle than usual looking at him, and ducked into the familiar fuggy warmth of the famous wizard tavern. He was immediately enveloped in the comforting scent of a peat fire and the fragrance of day-old steak and kidney pie. It was a very British smell, Merlin thought. Especially when mingled with the stench of wet woollens and stewed tea, as it always was in the stuffy old pub.

He nodded at the the landlady, Hannah Abbott, who was a former classmate and compatriot of the famed Harry Potter and Co. She smiled cheerily, and waved Merlin to his usual table by the hearth. He sank gratefully into the broken-down old armchair that always seemed to emit an audible and very human-sounding  _oof_  of discomfort whenever anyone sat down on it. Merlin smiled, thinking of the late Professor Slughorn, who used to disguise himself as a plump armchair when trying to avoid unwelcome visitors or certain death, whichever came knocking at an inconvenient moment.

“What can I get for you, Headmaster?” Hannah asked kindly, wiping her hands on her apron as she beamed down at Merlin.

“Um...a firewhiskey, please.” He caught the familiar whirling, elegant flurry of Morgana’s posh robes as she Apparated right into the pub, and amended his order. “Make that two, Hannah, and better pour doubles.”

She glanced over to where Morgana Pendragon was smoothing down her sleek black hair, and threw Merlin a knowing glance. “Right you are, Headmaster.” She turned about, offering Morgana a respectful nod. “Evening, Madam Minister.”

“And to you, Madam Abbott,” Morgana replied in civil, patrician tones.

She glided over to where Merlin sat, as though she wore a pair of skates rather than high-buttoned boots of the sort she had favoured for several centuries. She threw him a dazzling smile as she unwound the filmy silver scarf from her long, white throat. Merlin found himself relaxing slightly. It was always good to see someone one had known for time immemorial, never mind how fraught their relationship had once been. Sometimes he wasn’t altogether certain Morgana remembered much of what had passed between them, back in the old Albion days, when they had been friends for only a short time before morphing into bitter enemies. He had never quite grown completely comfortable around her, and there was a part of him that simply couldn’t relax in her company, even though they had become true friends over the years.

The fact that he had only managed to half-kill her had perhaps redeemed him slightly in her eyes. After Aithusa had borne her away to the Isle of the Blest for healing, she had allowed bygones to be bygones. And she truly _had_ been healed, bled of her bitterness in ways Merlin wasn’t quite sure he had ever managed himself. There was a serenity about Morgana Pendragon, a core of strength and contentment, that he deeply envied. It was part of what had drawn him to her when they had crossed paths again, sometime in the eleventh century. He'd scuttled toward her like a wraith toward a homely light, and they had never been far apart since. She was the one who had convinced him to take up the Hogwarts headmastership, when all he really wanted was to crouch in his hovel, muttering under his breath and growing madder by the minute.

“Good evening, Emrys,” she said breezily when he answered her smile with a cautious one of his own. Merlin’s smile quickly turned sour. He hated it when she called him by his Druidic moniker as if it was the name he went by, when he only ever used it as convenient surname. Balinorson seemed like too much of a mouthful, and Emrys too much of an emotional Albatross when Morgana used it. It always destroyed any fragile good humour he’d managed to draw around himself when they got together. Part of it was that he’d never quite regained his former cheeriness of temper, the brilliance of his expressions having gone the way of his king. Another casualty of Camlann. The other part was that she never let him relax and forget, even for a moment, the things that haunted him.

“Evening, Minister,” he replied courteously. “I’ve ordered you a firewhiskey.”

She grimaced, and smiled. “I hope you made it a _triple_. And you can dispense with all of this _Minister_ nonsense. We’re old friends, are we not? Older friends than we ever were enemies.”

Merlin tried not to allow his surprise show on his face. Morgana alluded to the old days, what Merlin liked to think of as their first incarnation, only very rarely.

“Oh, come on, old warlock,” she said lightly. “Neither of us have forgotten anything. It’s only out of respect, perhaps misplaced or exaggerated, of each other’s feelings that keeps us silent on the subject of the things that happened so long ago.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin agreed guardedly. “What makes you mention them out of turn now, if I might ask?”

Morgana’s laugh was as light as a fairy bell. “Oh, Emrys, so formal! You really needn’t be, not with me. You never used to be. You talk like a stuffy old man.”

“Well, perhaps that’s because it’s what I _am_ ,” he retorted, wincing inwardly at the way his querulous words so closely mimicked Kilgharrah's from earlier that evening. “And _you_ are a very old woman, let me remind you. Perhaps older even than I am.”

Morgana pouted prettily, her eyes flashing at his ungalant effrontery. “Only by a few measly years, _Merlin_. And you needn’t throw them in a lady’s face. It isn’t polite.”

“I thought you just finished saying we oughtn’t to _be_ so polite to each other?”

The former mortal adversaries glared at one another. Their impasse was broken by the cheerfully oblivious Madam Abbott as she plunked their brimming tankards of firewhiskey down in front of them. “I made them quintuples,” she told them, with a grin. “On the house. You’re going to need it, Headmaster, what with the new term starting tomorrow.”

“Ah, cheers,” Merlin said, raising his mug to the beaming landlady.

“Yes, here’s to the new term,” Morgana said quickly, raising her own bubbling drink. “And don’t forget to pour one for yourself, barkeep, on the Ministry’s sickle.”

“Why thank you, Madam Minister, that’s very kind.”

Morgana watched as she trotted off back to the bar to do as she was bid. It was very nearly the end of the night, and there were few other customers in sight. A stiff drink would keep her going on top of remaining attentive to their needs as well as their privacy, a delicate balance a less astute publican would fumble badly. But Hannah was as canny as she was discreet, which was why they always met here. The Leaky Cauldron was something of a tradition between the pair of them. They’d been drinking here for 617 years and counting, through bad times and worse. Merlin only hoped this was the former rather than the later. _Good_ times were never quite on the menu.

“Alright,” he said finally, after downing half of his tankard and letting the fiery liquor burn away what remained of his politesse along with the greater part of his esophagus. “Spill,  Morgana. Why did you ask me here tonight?”

“For old time’s sake?” she offered tentatively, her lovely skin flushed from the whiskey. Gods, but she was a beauty. Merlin had long ceased feeling tongue-tied by her otherworldly good-looks, but their impact had never lessened.

“Take another swallow and think again,” Merlin replied tolerantly, trying not to smile. His lips twitched mutinously, and he stoppered them with another swig. “Ooooh, that burns!”

“The best things do,” Morgana countered, raising the smoking tankard to her lips. She squealed a little as the liquor went down, a delicate plume of steam escaping each of her finely-moulded ears. “Merlin’s _beard_ , this is a grand vintage. I must ask Madam Abbott the year, and lay in a stock for Ministry functions.”

Merlin cocked an eyebrow. “Merlin’s what?”

Morgana grinned. “It’s just an expression, Emrys.”

“Could you stop calling me that, please?” Merlin groused. “And tell me what we’re doing here this time of night? I’ve rather a busy day tomorrow, as I’m sure you’re very well aware.”

Morgana seemed to shrink visibly in her seat, toying with her tankard as she avoided his gaze. “Actually, that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow. And. What a momentous day it’s going to be, student-wise.”

“If you’re talking about the unholy triumvirate of Albus Potter, Rose Weasley, and Scorpius Malfoy, I’ve already been forewarned.”

Morgana didn’t even crack a smile. “No, Merlin. The student I have in mind isn’t one of the myriad Potter-Weasley clan, nor the offspring of that priggish snot Malfoy. It’s Ygraine I wanted to talk to you about.”

Merlin nodded politely. “Ygraine? I don’t think I know a witch by that name.” He frowned slightly.  “In fact, I haven’t heard that name except in poems and fairytales for centuries, practically millennia. What’s the child's surname?”

The Minister hesitated for a triple-count. “Pendragon,” Morgana said finally, in a soft voice. “Ygraine Pendragon. She’s my niece.”

“What are you talking about, Morgana?” Merlin said sharply, his mind beginning to list in mad directions, like an unmoored galleon. “You don’t _have_ a niece!”

“Oh, but I do,” Morgana countered gravely, almost sadly. “Merlin, she’s Arthur’s daughter.”

Merlin blinked rapidly, the blood beginning to roar in his ears. He dropped his tankard, sending it spinning across the table before he could catch it, his limbs leaden as though his bones had been turned to treacle. The dregs of his firewhiskey sloshed everywhere, and he felt sick to his stomach. The world was a Tilt-A-Whirl, and he wanted badly to get _off_. Morgana’s lovely shimmering mouth moved rapidly, her pale brow furrowed with anxiety as she gripped his arm fiercely. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t hear a word she said. He had been pulled into a vacuum. 

The world had gone quiet after the one word he couldn’t bear hearing said aloud.

_Arthur._

He closed his eyes and untethered himself from the world that no longer made any sense. Everything went mercifully black as he fell backward into the nothingness Morgana’s words had conjured. If the gods were good, he need never wake. He would be alone forever with the name of his lover and king, and nothing would ever hurt either of them again. _Arthur,_   _please--_ he thought as he fell.   _Just. Hold me._


	2. Cool'd a Long Age in the Deep-Delvèd Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin learns the truth Morgana has been keeping from him for 12 long years concerning a certain Once and Future Monarch. He makes a promise to a portrait he intends to keep.

****

When Merlin regained consciousness, he found himself stretched out on a strange bed in a room he’d never seen before. A merry fire crackled in the grate, but it didn’t reach far enough to dispel every shadow. He realized he must be in one of the rooms above the Leaky Cauldron, and relaxed slightly. He felt raw on the inside, as if he’d drunk an entire barrel-full of exploding lemonade while his robes had been concurrently lit on fire. The after-effects of fire whiskey were potent but not usually so drastic. He winced, struggling to sit up. Morgana’s anxious face swam into view. She laid a tentative hand against his chest and pressed him gently back down against the pillows.

“Shhh. Don’t try to move. You’ve had a dreadful shock.”

“And whose fault might that be?” Merlin’s voice was weak, but his words hadn’t lost any of the edge he’d intended.

“Merlin, I am so sorry!” Morgana said feelingly, her uncanny eyes like ancient shards of glass worn smooth by the sea. They brimmed with lustrous tears that spilled over her pale cheeks. She only looked more beautiful when she cried, as if her tears were shimmering pearls rolling down her neck.

Merlin hardened his heart. He took her hand and flung it away from him. “Don’t touch me,” he warned. “Just. Give me some space.”

Morgana did as he told her, moving back from his bedside to sit in the chair next to it. He could still see her well enough, though the shadows clung to her, deepening her tragic beauty still more. She looked more like the mad Morgana of old than she had in centuries, and the sight was bitterly appealing to Merlin, whose old feelings of enmity had been stirred up again by her deceit.

It was time now for Merlin to speak, to try to understand. “So Arthur has risen, and he has a daughter. This is what you’re telling me?”

Morgana nodded slowly. “I didn’t say anything to you about her because I wasn’t sure at first she was going to be a witch. Her parents are both Muggles.”

“Arthur is a creature born of _magic_ , and therefore hardly qualifies as a _Muggle_ ,” Merlin reminded her sharply. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that fairly important detail.”

Morgana bowed her head. “Of course not. Which is why I kept a close eye on her.”

“So if she _hadn’t_ been a witch, you’d never have told me about her, or about Arthur? Morgana! I’ve been waiting nearly 1500 years. I had a right to know. More than anyone. I thought we were past all of the secrets and lies.”

“I didn’t mean to lie,” she said miserably. “Truly, I didn’t.”

“ _Twelve years_ , Morgana,” Merlin said witheringly. “At _least_. Am I right? And that’s being generous. It’s probably been longer.”

“I thought it would seem like nothing, to you. Like...a moment, to anyone else.”

Merlin stared at Morgana's uncomprehending face. He struggled again to sit upright, to regain some measure of control over himself as waves of grief and rage threatened to engulf him where he lay. He needed to get his head above the tide and tread water as best he could.

He sighed deeply, as tired as he could ever remember being in his long and lonely life. “Morgana, have you ever loved anyone, truly, in your entire life? Even just a little bit--enough to help you imagine how much more exponentially I loved Arthur?”

He searched her face, but she just gazed at him dumbly, her eyes flickering back and forth between his as if trying to divine what he expected her to say. “ _Try_ , Morgana. Imagine the agony I’ve suffered every single moment of every day since I lost him. Don’t think for a moment that a single _second_ of that time passed easily for me. It was a torture nearly beyond endurance. And you, you have made it last more than a dozen _years_ longer than it needed to! And I thought you'd finished with being cruel.”

Morgana’s face crumpled like a bit of discarded parchment. She pressed her fingers to her temples, her mouth an open moue of regret. It didn’t move the warlock as it might have in any other circumstance.

“I have forgiven you a lot of grievous things, Morgana Pendragon, as you have forgiven them of me. But this. This is too much. This is beyond the pale.”

Merlin said nothing more for a few moments, allowing his words to fully penetrate. He waited until his anger subsided into something bleaker, less vengeful. “I think you’d better tell me everything,” he said gently.

Morgana nodded, throwing him a grateful, shaking smile. It was one of her strange quirks that even under the most dire of circumstances, her first instinct was to blind the world with one of her dazzling smiles. She couldn’t seem to help it. It was like someone who laughed when they were grievously hurt. His heart lurched a little, but he was not blinded. He kept absolutely still as she collected herself, palming the tears from her face before they stained her immaculate complexion. She would have to face other people again, after all. He could see the way she calculated the possible damage, and took measured steps to stem the deluge. Morgana never punished herself for long.

“It was just over twelve years ago, like you said,” she began with a shuddering sigh. “I had just been made Minister for Magic. You had only recently taken up the headmastership of Hogwarts. As you know, I’ve always kept up on events in the Muggle world--it really is a necessary part of the job. Some of my predecessors have been shockingly sloppy and ignorant when it comes to--”

Merlin rolled his eyes and made an impatient gesture with his hand.

“Right, sorry. So anyway. As I was saying, I was looking through one of the Muggle newspapers to see if anything relevant was going on in their realm, when I came across a curious article.” Morgana leaned towards Merlin, eager to finally have an opportunity to tell the tale she’d kept hidden from him for so long. “It told of a young man found wandering alone on Glastonbury Tor who didn’t know who he was or where he came from. And the strange thing was that he was dressed in full Medieval armour, chainmail, vambraces, the whole works. He even had a red cape.”

Merlin's insides were doing funny things. Even though he knew where the anecdote was leading, it affected him deeply. It was just the sort of story he had always scoured Muggle newspapers and magazines looking for. How had he missed it? Trust Arthur to choose the very week Merlin'd been adjusting to his new responsibilities at Hogwarts to finally rise from the long-dissipated lake. It was the one time in his life Merlin had been less than vigilant, other than the time he joined in the defense of Hogwarts.

He sighed deeply, remorse eating away at him. If he’d been paying more attention, this would never have happened. “Go on,” he said coolly, concealing his emotions.

“No one had come forward with any information, and the Muggle authorities were getting desperate, so they decided to run the article with a photograph.” Morgana laughed then, remembering. “And Merlin, it was _Arthur_. Arthur down to his toes, as if not a day had passed since he died.”

“So you, what? Claimed him like a piece of  lost luggage?”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s rather an unkind way of putting it, but, essentially, yes. He _is_ my brother, after all. I had to go through a lot of bureaucratic nonsense to get him handed over to my care, seeing as how he didn’t remember me from Odin. But in the end, with the help of some pretty clever magically-conjured paperwork, I took him in. He lived in my flat with me in London for a time, while he went through some pretty intensive therapy.” She hesitated a moment over the next bit. “And that’s where he met her.”

Merlin frowned. “Who?”

“Guinevere.”

“Guinevere.” Merlin repeated stupidly.

Morgana rolled her eyes impatiently. “Yes. Guinevere. His wife. She was a nurse at the hospital where he received his treatment. You didn’t think he had a daughter all on his own, do you? Through what, magical intervention? He’s practically a Muggle, remember--a Squib at the very least. And even the most powerful wizards can’t conjure life out of nothing.”

 _Of course. It had to be another Gwen._ “So...he’s married,” Merlin said softly, a little part of him he hadn’t realized was still alive dying its tiny little death. _What did you expect, you foolish old man? A love that transcends the Ages? You gave up believing that a long time ago...._

Morgana smiled, a brief, sincere flutter. “Divorced. Amicably, too. It didn’t last long. Gwen’s seeing someone else now, and she and Arthur share custody.”

“And the child is a witch.”

“It would appear so. Don’t you remember signing off on her acceptance letter?”

Merlin shook his head irritably. “I don’t memorize the student roster, Morgana. I prefer to get to know their faces in tandem with their names.”

“Well, you’d think a name like Ygraine Pendragon might ring a bell or two.”

“Oi! Don’t put this on _me_ ,” Merlin growled, though he knew she was right. He should have been paying more attention. He should have kept up constant vigilance. This wasn’t all down to Morgana. He should have been there. He should have got there first. “I should never have left Glastonbury,” he said bleakly, staring into the fire.

Morgana laid a cool hand tentatively on his. “Don’t blame yourself, Emrys,” she told him firmly. “You did everything anyone could ever ask of you, and more.”

“Except to be there for my king when he came back from the dead.” He gazed down at their intersecting fingers. They were the exact same shade of pale. They looked far more like brother and sister than Morgana and Arthur ever had, dark bookends to the shining volume of his light. Merlin allowed his fingers to close, trapping Morgana’s within them. He didn’t know whose flesh was whose, and it was oddly comforting.

“I should have told you,” Morgana said, in a small voice, squeezing his hand tightly. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. If you ever do figure it out, don’t tell me.” Merlin sighed shakily. He smiled sadly. “I don’t want to know. But this makes us even, now. I gutted you, and now you’ve gutted me.” He realized as he spoke that his words had the timbre of prophecy. “There is balance now, between us.”

Morgana’s eyes glittered as she looked at him. She nodded once, solemnly. Merlin couldn’t help feeling that some sort of irrevocable pact had been made between them.

Merlin rose from the bed, wincing as he stretched his back. This was one of those moments in his life when he was reminded very keenly that he was an impossibly old man. “So much for the legendary power of the Crystal of Neahtid, then,” he groused. “Bloody glorified paperweight.”

Morgana shrugged. “Must just need recharged, or something.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I’ve got to get back. Long day tomorrow, and I’m absolutely knackered.” He bowed respectfully, drawing diplomacy back round him like a second cloak. “Goodnight, Madame Minister.”

“Goodnight, Emrys.”

He was about to Apparate when he caught a hesitant expression on Morgana’s face. He stopped before the spell took hold. “What is it?”

She smiled faintly. “It’s just. Sometimes, when he was sleeping. When he didn’t know where he was or his own name--he called out yours.”

Merlin’s eyes fluttered. He willed himself to remain upright, digging the crescents of his fingernails into his palms as if he was waving a vial of spirit of hartshorn under the upturned nose of a fainting lady. “Which one?” he asked calmly, as if enquiring after the weather.

She laughed. “Why, _that complete idiot_ _**Mer** lin_, of course. What else?”

Merlin nodded, biting back a smile as he Apparated in a dramatic swirl of black, leaving Morgana to go back to her mysterious life in the wilds of London. Merlin returned to the castle with which he'd begrudgingly fallen in love over the years, the only home since Camelot he’d ever truly known.

****  
*******

The Headmaster’s Tower was more of a trio of mini belfries slapped like an afterthought onto the side of the huge castle. They looked like they were clinging on for dear life, come hell or high water. Which, he supposed, _had_ come at one time or another. And still the miniature towers remained. The first was his office, accessible through the spiral staircase behind the statue of the gargoyle in the third floor corridor. Provided one knew the password, of course. Ironically, the one Merlin was using this week was _Neahtid_. He planned on changing it immediately.

The second tier housed his sitting room, with its impressive fireplace, comfortably shabby furnishings, and floor to ceiling bookcases stuffed to bursting with the collective libraries of every Headmaster from Hogwarts’ founding. Merlin had never owned so many books in his life, and he added to the collection every chance he got. Its curatorship was one of the greatest honours of his position, and he was deeply proud of the small contribution he had thus far made to the library’s expansion.

The third and final tier contained Merlin’s rather embarrassingly lavish bedchamber. Even Arthur in the heyday of his kingship hadn’t lived amid such enviable richness of brocade, polished wood, and precious antiquities. Sometimes Merlin felt more comfortable sleeping propped up in a sturdy chair, or stretched out on the plush carpet with only his cloak to protect him from the night chill. Long years of camping in caves and lakeside vigils had made him unused to the luxury of a feather bed. At heart, he was still, in many ways, the backward lad from Ealdor, shamming airs above his station.

Merlin stood in the convex of the giant window overlooking the Black Lake, watching the way the moonlight shimmered over the water like an undulating ribbon of silver silk. Occasionally, the giant squid would break the surface, waving its tentacles in the air. It was a lonely creature, the moon its only friend. Merlin certainly knew what it was like, to love something so untouchable, so far away.

He sighed, and moved away from the window. He paced his chamber, back and forth. Trying to avoid looking at the one thing he most wanted to see. After resisting rather pointlessly for a half hour, he finally allowed himself to stand before the unadorned black frame beside his bed. Archimedes, pretending to be asleep on his perch, opened one golden eye and hooted an unhappy warning, but Merlin ignored him. He gazed for a long while at the painting he’d had commissioned. At first, the portrait appeared to be of no one. Just a bland, pastoral scene depicting the English landscape.

But Merlin knew better.

He knew, for one thing, that the expanse of green grass shifting like a vast sea in the breeze wasn’t just some anonymous hillock somewhere. He knew it was the Tor, though the Tower wasn’t in sight. And that the shimmering water wasn’t just some swimming tarn nestled in the Peaks, or some other lonely place. It was the lake of Avalon, vanished these many centuries.

He further knew that the speck on the horizon wasn’t a random blob of paint. It was a knight, very far away. A knight who was waiting--for what, the painting didn’t show. Merlin also knew something else the painting didn’t show: that the seemingly random blob on the horizon wasn’t just any knight.

He was a king.

“Please,” Merlin said softly, leaning his forehead against the frame. “Come speak to me.”

At first the blob didn’t move. And then, obligingly, it grew bigger and bigger, resolving itself first into a swirl of distant colour--shining silver, gleaming gold, and crisp crimson. And then, as if by magic, it became a man, a tiny one, no bigger than Merlin’s smallest fingernail. He waited patiently, his eyes riveted, until the man became a knight wearing a suit of gleaming armour. After a few moments, the knight became a king, crowned with a tousled mass of golden hair and the sigil of a glittering dragon stitched into the finely woven weft of his cape. He grew large enough after several moments to fill the frame entirely with his regal face. A face that was wracked with bleak confusion, and had always, since the portrait was commissioned, worn a sad little frown. The eyes were dark as wells, blue only at the edges where the light played. The mouth was stern and the lips thin with sorrow. It was the most tragic face Merlin had ever seen, and the most beautiful.

The painted king lifted his gauntleted fist to bang on the invisible barrier that separated Merlin’s world from his. It clanged discordantly, like the clapper of a broken bell.

“Where am I?” the king said, in a broken voice, for the thousandth time. “Who am I, and who the bloody _hell_ are you?”

Merlin shook his head, saying the same thing he always did, in reply. “I don’t know.” But this time, he had something new to say. “But I am going to find out.”

He turned his face away from the man’s bleak, accusing expression, pressed it into his arm, and wept. He missed the moment when the painted eyes filled momentarily with hope.


End file.
